Rye, south coast of England
The pilgrims reached the outskirts of Rye with mounting excitement. This was where they would take ship to foreign parts and adventures unknown – two souls from the deep countryside whose acquaintance with great waters was no more than the village pond. As they topped the last rise into the town the sea spread out before them, sparkling and immense, stretching completely across their vision from one side to another and out to a fearful empty horizon.
The little band paused to take in the sight before heading down the hill to look for the Mermayde Inn where the shipmen were to be found.
Jared kept close to his new friend Dickin of Shrewsbury who’d been in a ship before, on pilgrimage to Santiago of Compostela. His advice was to closely question the hard-eyed seamen, so different to the land folk, with their muscled upper bodies and hands like claws.
There was indeed a ship about to sail – Winchelsea, a cog loading for Lisbon in wool and pewter. There would be no lack of traders from there to Venice.
An alternative was the hulc Judith of Romney, larger and travelling direct to Venice, but this would not arrive here for a week, days in idleness that would cost them dear.
Down at the wharf the ship looked huge; a single mast nearly as high as a church steeple and a fat hull that was fast filling with square packs of wool and wooden cases, which was then planked over. A raised deck aft formed a wide cabin beneath, the whole ship giving an impression of stout but plain utility.
‘When can we get on it?’ Jared asked, excited at the impossible thought that this entire little world would move across the ocean and then appear in a foreign place just as it looked before him now.
‘We’d not be welcome yet. And we’ve things to do – you’ll be needing a few items for a sea journey as they won’t give you on board,’ Dickin said.
When they struggled back later each carried a mattress, a thick wool coat and a supply of foodstuffs.
Eventually they were let aboard.
Jostled by sailors and dockhands they were shown to the side of the vessel and sternly cautioned to stay there until told otherwise.
From the raised deck a torrent of foul-mouthed abuse had the seamen clap on to lines and heave ropes in a confusing pell-mell of rushing feet and curses. With a bumping and lurch felt through the decking a giant mainsail suddenly blew free, banging and thundering as it was brought under control and the ship took up a definite lean to one side.
The swish of water past the hull told Jared that against all reason the entire structure must be moving. He dared a quick look above the bulwark and with a fearful thrill saw that the waterfront was separated from them by fifty feet of dark water and houses were sliding past, already faster than a man could walk.
The distance widened, the buildings diminished and by degrees the world of land grew less real as their wooden one became their only existence on the widening waste of water. The mouth of the river took a sharp turn to the south – and there was the open sea.
The great bulk of the ship that had seemed so secure and solid alongside the wharf was now jibbing and bucketing with a liveliness that had them hanging on for dear life. Perkyn slid down the deck, eyes bulging with fear. Jared yanked him up again.
The pilgrims looked back at the line of the shore as the familiar trees and fields slipped away. Some mumbled prayers and petitions, for this was an experience unimaginable to honest countrymen. They could only seize a rope and stare hopelessly at the immensity of water – now as far as the eye could see in every direction except the receding shore.
Sailors came around and showed them how to tie their mattress rolls and bag of possessions to the side. They were also at pains to explain what to do if a sea serpent appeared and threatened to swallow the ship and gave many other useful tips.
Further out to sea the winds blew flat and hard. Stinging spray was driven back at every plunge of the bow but Jared was getting used to the roll and heave and determined that he’d tour the ship. Passing from handhold to handhold he found that the only enclosed space was the cabin at the after end of the ship, which was barred to travellers. Above it was an open deck with a rail, which he wasn’t about to try to reach.
He lurched forward under the huge straining sail and reached the sharp prow with its ropes soaring up, then returned to where Perkyn was hunched miserably.
‘Not as if there’s much to see,’ he muttered while Winchelsea continued its wild dance with Neptune.
In all there were five pilgrims and a chapman trying to make themselves comfortable against the hard side of the ship, out of the wind, blankly enduring.
Jared pulled his coarse greatcoat around him – how could they exist like this for the weeks to Lisbon?
Evening approached. The crew brought up buckets, effortlessly coping with the heaving deck. Their evening meal: sausage and hard biscuit. It was fusty, plain and little enough but he was hungry and devoured his, and was ready with his pot when the ale came around. It was only half-filled but he soon found out why, it sloshed about maddeningly as he tried to drink.
Night drew in and the travellers could do nothing other than to take to their tiny beds under what covering they could find and wait for the dawn.
Stiff and cold, Jared sensed a lightening and saw the sea slowly take form and shape, a sullen grey emptiness without limit until he made out a vague rumpling of coast far off to the left. It didn’t register at first that something was wrong – it was on the other side of the ship.
Dickin explained he was now looking at France and that after they turned the corner to the left then he’d see some seas that would make this look like a duck pond.
Hollow-eyed, Perkyn lolled listlessly against the bulwark.
The size of the seas increased by the hour, long murderous rollers came on with a malice that was almost personal, and when they shaped course south they took these at an angle, producing an awkward screwing motion.
With the jerking swoops and lifts Jared lost his grip on what was up and what was down and joined the others in helpless retching, watched by a mocking crew.
They suffered for four more long days until they raised a headland. In its lee was a town and ships similar to their own, but nearer dead than alive they took little interest in hearing that this was Corunna in the Spanish kingdom of Galicia.
The flint-hearted captain would not listen to their pleas to be allowed ashore to die on dry land. To avoid landing taxes he took on their water by boat and put to sea again without delay.
Thankfully, three days later it was Lisbon and Winchelsea was squared away for the run upriver to the city. Even more wonderful was their release from a watery hell to the delirious feeling of solid ground under their feet, and a kindly innkeeper who would take in voyagers unwashed for many days and weak with privation.
Perkyn begged that they continue their pilgrimage on foot, as nature intended, but was persuaded by the sight of another ship.
A much larger cog, this had a splendid castle with battlements standing proud above the afterdeck and another, smaller, set right out over the prow. From its lofty single mast fluttered pennons of some noble order of chivalry and well-dressed people strolled her deck. And yes, there was room for worthy pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land.
Guglielmo di Venezia was returning merchants to Venice along with a contingent of knights to Malta, and was victualling for a comfortable journey. As they watched, wine, poultry, barrels of seafood and fruit were loaded aboard. An altogether different experience promised.
They sailed with the tide. However, the lavish cabins aft were provided for the knights and merchants; theirs were little more than stalls and bare timbers, even if these were below, sheltered from wind and sea.
On deck they were ordered to remain right forward, out of the way of the higher class of passenger and when the fragrant odours of cooking drifted down, for them it was only cheese and salted meats.
At night, packed in below in stifling darkness, there was nothing to do but lie awake with the sound of great creaks and grinding, the sea swashing past in thumps and gurgles and the droning of sleepless conversations.
The stench of the confined space was hard to take. Bilge, stale urine, rat droppings. The lurching movement of the ship in the airless and oppressive dimness brought on seasickness in several and the fetor of vomit had its inevitable effect on the others, transforming it to a hell of misery.
Jared felt the light scutter of rats running over him and gloomily questioned why he’d undertaken this nightmare of a journey. A cooler voice told him that the ship was moving along as fast as he could run, day and night, and these were all miles that he did not have to walk.
Later they passed a massive lion-shaped rock and then the nature of the sea changed. No longer the long swells and hard westerlies, the waves were shorter and steeper and the glittering expanse of water was agreeably sun-drenched.
They had left the cold northern lands behind and now – some weeks directly ahead in the direction of the rising dawn – was the Promised Land, the birthplace of the Christ-child. Against this tawdry reality it seemed too fantastical to be true.